First Day of Chemotherapy

It was a good day…..better than I expected.

We made the 30-minute drive to the cancer center and checked in about three minutes late. Within moments, they had me back for vitals and then guided me to the infusion area. I was assigned a nurse and asked to take a seat in a comfortable recliner. Given my age, I first had to complete a pregnancy test…standard protocol. Once that was done, we were ready to begin.

The nurse walked me through the plan- first, pre-medications—anti-allergy meds and steroids to reduce the risk of reactions. Then an injection in my left thigh containing two treatment medications. Finally, the main chemotherapy infusion through IV.

She explained everything carefully, including the common reactions to each medication, and then we started.

The first anti-allergy medication went in without issue. The second one hit hard. Suddenly, I felt faint—like I might pass out. I reached for my husband, who was sitting nearby, and then I was asleep.

When I woke, I could hear several nurses around me. They lowered my recliner fully, placed an ice pack on my back, and checked my vitals. My blood pressure was stable, but my heart rate had dropped. Someone mentioned that I looked pink and asked if I had cotton mouth. I did.

They started a saline bag, and within about 30 minutes, I came back—still woozy, but alert.

At one point I asked my nurse, half-jokingly, if I’d be judged for pulling a stuffed animal out of my bag. She smiled and said, Absolutely not. You should see what people bring in here. She told me one patient brings a weighted stuffed animal. I asked my husband to hand me my Stitch. I set him beside me and immediately felt calmer, grounded, comforted.

My nurse let me know she’d be contacting the care team to adjust the dosage of the medication that caused the reaction. I had been given a high dose in preparation for the chemo to follow.

Next came the injection. She warned me it would burn for about eight minutes and apologized in advance. I told her it was ok. When it started, I felt some burning—but nothing unmanageable. Eight minutes later, it was done. The best part? I won’t have to do that one weekly.

Then came the main event.

The nurse returned carrying a bag clearly marked with toxicity warnings. She wore thick gloves and a blue protective cover over her scrubs. I remember thinking, That’s being handled with serious care… and it’s going into my body.

She hooked it up and told me she would sit directly in front of me for the first ten minutes to monitor for reactions. She reassured me that if anything went wrong, she had medications ready to counteract it. I gave her a thumbs-up, still drowsy from the earlier meds, fighting to stay awake.

Then she said, It’s okay—you don’t have to be awake for this.

I stopped fighting.

As I drifted off, I glanced at my feet stretched out in front of me—wearing my Salomon Speedcross 6 trail shoes. The same shoes I plan to take with me to the Gobi Desert March in 2027.

I slept deeply—no dreams, just darkness.

When I woke, the nurse told me the infusion was almost complete. She reviewed aftercare instructions with my husband: nausea may start around day three; try medication A first, then medication B if needed, and message the care team through MyChart if symptoms persist. That’s about all I remember.

We left the infusion center, and I waited in the lobby while my husband brought the car around. I fell asleep again in the passenger seat and woke as we entered the garage at home.

Day 1: done.

I’ve decided to start a personal challenge—my own version of 75 Hard, which I’m calling 85 Strong.

I won’t be able to go as hard as I normally would, but the discipline matters. The structure matters. I have 81 days of treatment in Phase I, and this challenge will help keep my mind focused on the process.

The rules are the same as 75 Hard, with one added requirement: no complaining.

I’ll continue both indoor and outdoor workouts—adjusted as needed. This is mental training as much as physical. Preparation not just for treatment, but for what comes after.

Yes, I still have my heart set on Gobi.

Onward and upward.